Dr C and I first “moved in” together in mid 1971, still postgraduate students in Glasgow. We were due to be married later that year but had to grab this particular two bedroom apartment to rent before it was snapped up. It involved each of us shifting all our earthly possessions from our respective halls-of-residence a couple of miles across the city; my clothes were in a large mountaineering rucksack and I just cannot remember what was inside the T-chest (remember those?). And that was it, 23 years old and everything I owned in a rucksack and a T-chest!
“Moving in” to our “new downsized situation” involved merely starting to live only on the ground floor of our large three storey Cotswolds house, but there probably aren’t enough T-chests on the planet that could have held what we shifted, and a British army logistics officer would have come in handy too!
We began logically; visit IKEA to choose new wardrobes, bedside cabinets and dressing table; take delivery of said pieces; engage nice Spanish immigrant worker to assemble; move bed downstairs. That took a week! Next, refurnish old dining room to be Dr Bs reading room, previous version now having become bedroom. Hope you’re following this? In the meantime, re-enact Dutch boy with finger in dyke by plugging leaking gaps in new shower cubicle while waiting for Craig the plumber to get off his arse and condescend to pay us a visit!
Meanwhile, Shazza our worthy daughter, suspends her global schedule to visit us and sort her mum’s wardrobe. She’s returning next week to reorganise (sic destroy) our kitchen!
To be honest, in between plumbing leaks the move downstairs has been a pleasurable and interesting experience. At times it feels like we are living in a hotel, lots of space, all spick and span, easy walk to the kitchen for 6am cup of tea. I just don’t know what to do with the two floors above us, but one bright spark fellow blogger suggested we take in lodgers or involve ourselves in Airbnb! Bugger off Andrew, we know where you live!